I'll meet you by the broken tree
by JDLawrence
Summary: They say it's the times that make the people. What if Tree Hill was really a small town in Nebraska, surrounded by Pawnee territory, in the 1860's? What will become of the familiar characters once they are faced with such a troubled era? (Naley)
1. Prologue

A/N: Ok folks, i'm going to introduce this fic a little bit. Its set in the civil war era (thus AU, obviously), and since I'm not a history buff there might be anachronisms and inconsistencies, I'm just asking you to bare with me. I tend to write some pretty long stuff, so we're clear, I'm not going to go straight to the naley stuff, and I'm not planning on taking any shortcut either (YEH BE WARNED!). Some of the characters, a lot of the setting and mucho information were taken from Penelope Williamson's "Heart of the west" era novel. The inspiration probably came from a bunch of other novels I read about that period, but I can't remember the titles, so i'll mention them as I go along. Also, this first installment is a repost from many months back, corrected and with a new title, but the coming chapters will be all new. Ok. I don't think I have anything else to say except, well... enjoy... 

I'll meet you by the broken tree

Prologue 1855

It was the constant queasiness that was unbearable. The little girl knew, if she could finally sick up, the bumping and jumping of the shabby four-wheeled cart would resume its rightful place far in the back of her mind. Oh, at first the steady rumble of the steel-railed wheels on the uneven road had not bothered her so, no, the journey from Saint-Louis to the town they called Omaha had been almost pleasant. But that had been two weeks ago: now far west of Omaha, she could say she hated the jagged landscape with a passion.

"Kid! Hey, kid, I'm talkin' to ya." The mule driver called from the front of the wagon. "Git you' rump up 'ere!"

With a sigh the little girl clenched her teeth and, hanging on for dear life to the sideboards, climbed into the paraphernalia that lay down the length of the vehicle, between the fat little man and herself.

She whimpered when a particularly large rock was rolled over, causing her to lose her precarious grip on a canvas-covered item and roll to the floor, hitting her head in the process. It wasn't the first time the ten year-old was injured since leaving Saint-Louis with the mule driver, and now she knew better then to complain. After a few more collisions with objects ranging from a sturdy wooden table to a finely worked pewter lamp, the slip of a girl climbed onto the driver's bench - more of a plank, really. She readied herself to be sent out to lead the six filthy mules through a particularly difficult portion of the path, that was what she had been hired to do, after all.

"Wha' was it you' folks called you agin, kid?" The driver said after a silence, effectively stunning the wide-eyed child.

After a second, the youth in question announced, wistfully:

"Siobhan."

"Right... foreign name if ol'Hank ever hear' one."

"Irish." She offered, knowing the distinct red tint in her otherwise brown hair, along with her freckled nose, had already given her away.

"Hmph" was the only answer she received, much to her relief. Irish blood was not welcomed everywhere these days: she had learned the lesson painfully enough on a few occasions.

The fat little man muttered for a time and Siobhan began to wonder if this was the only reason he had called for her: the bumps and jerks were much less disturbing at the rear of the cart: she was eager to reclaim her place.

"Mister James?" She inquired, fearful of interrupting his thoughts: they were painfully slow and he did not like being distracted from them, most of the time. She kept her hands far from him, warily eyeing the whip coiled on his lap: there were still pink streaks across her palms from that fourth night west of Saint-Louis, she doubted they would ever disappear.

"Yeah, yeah kid." He never called her by name. She was always 'kid', or at least she was when he was in a good mood. "We'll be reachin' a village soon - well... a town, really, by region standards." her heart leaped: at last! "You' gunna have ta change you' name kid, foreigners, they ain't always best looked upon in these parts." He mumbled something about all of them being foreigners here one way or another, then added, out loud: "Don't git me wrong, sometimes people don' mind 'em, but jus' ta be on the safe side."

"But I don't want any other name." She mumbled her thick accent peeking: Hank James did not take notice: he barely understood her as it was anyway.

"I knew a woman once, an' a fine one at that, yes..."The driver remembered fondly the shapely figure, all those years ago. "If someone asks you, from now on, you' name's Haley, an' you keep it at that! That drawl o' yours would have us thrown out o' some cities I know." Siobhan choked: the man had the nerve to complain about her drawl? "Well? Git over there you lil' chit, can't you see Dolly'll be breaking 'er legs in those ditches if ya don' git you' ass movin'?" He made a move to snatch his whip but Siobhan had already darted down on the ground and was hurrying to catch up with Dolly and Molly, the leading pair.

Coaxing the animals around the holes was easy enough, with a few gentle tugs and the right words murmured in the right ear. The trick she had originally learned from her Da had been meant for horses, but she had found it worked just as well on mules.

Siobhan walked silently beside Patty, the left-hander on the third pair and also the youngest of the group. The sun was sinking in the horizon, blazing a thousand different hues of reds and oranges. She knew Hank would be wanting to set up camp soon. She should have been glad after the long, hot day, but the coolness that was quickly crawling from the east froze her to the soul. Dusk often brought on a longing for home she did not know she could feel until it was upon her.

She did not have many recollections of her homeland, and all she could summon of the moor was a faint odor and what her Ma and Da had been willing to tell her once they had moved to America.

The poster has said there was money enough for thousands here, enough jobs for entire families. The poster had lied.

For five years they had survived, Da, Ma, lil'Pete, the twins and Siobhan by doing a few odd jobs here and there, from city to city. There were already more immigrants then what the manufacturers could hire, and even with Da working everywhere he could and the teenaged duo of Pat and Aidan, two able-bodied lads of 16, engaging in every illegal fight where there was money to be made, there was still a constantly pregnant Ma to feed (there had been three miscarriages in as many years) and three year-old Peter to care for. Consequently, it was not so surprising that Siobhan had quickly learned the art of pocket lifting.

It was five years before Da found a half-decent, steady job. There were staying in Saint-Louis at that time, the horse market was hiring handlers - Da was good with beasts. Unfortunately, the job didn't pay quite enough to feed a pregnant, sickly wife, an infant boy, a growing girl and two full-blown teenagers. Of course, the twins earned enough on their own to provide a small, shabby housing for everyone, but when Hank James offered to take "one o' them kids" on his journey west for the post as a helper - the man was growing weary in his old age - for three months or the duration of the trip there and back again, Da and Ma had jumped on the occasion. Of course, it would have to be Siobhan: Pete was too young, and the twins were earning their keep and more, even if not always legally. Sending Siobhan had been the only solution. Oh, they'd had tears in their eyes when Da lifted her onto the cart, clutching her bundle close to her heaving chest, but in their mind they had already been calculating how much money they would save over the coming months. Strangely, Siobhan did not resent them: so long as lil'Pete stopped weeping from hunger and Da was able buy more coal to keep Ma warm enough to keep her babe, then she was happy. And it wasn't as if this were permanent either: depending on the terrain, they would be back in ten or twelve weeks, Hank James had promised the parents.

And now, a month since Saint-Louis, through roads, paths, and no path at all, they were finally coming to the first agglomeration which the mule driver deemed worthy of the term "town". Yes, it had a nice ring to it: "the town of Tree Hill, middle of nowhere". "Strange name", she had observed, and Hank had specified, proud to appear knowledgeable, that it was a rough translation of the Indian name. She wondered if Indians still dwelled there.

It was high noon when the mail wagon rolled, quite slowly, into the town of Tree Hill, Siobhan leading Dolly and Molly in six inches deep of thick mud, while Hank encouraged his beasts with a few cracks of his whip above their heads (and consequently above Siobhan's) as he sat on the driver's bench.

The little girl had been surprised the intense glare of the sun had not already dried the ground, but Hank had quickly informed her it would remain wet until the end of June - at least - and that was a month from now! Even if it was near the end of May, Siobhan sank well past her ankles in the mixture of earth and animal rejects, making each step that much harder. After slowly progressing on the main street - well, the only street, really - for some time, Hank finally reined in his mules.

"Woah, ladies, woah!" Siobhan did not know if she was included in that, but she leaned gratefully and tiredly against Molly's sturdy shoulder."Start untackin' 'n I'll see the farrier 'bout lending us a couple o' stalls for the night. We'll be sleepin' under a roof tonight, kid!"

He spat a jet of brownish saliva and muttered to himself something about being too old for this sort of adventure. With a final look around the quiet street, he trudged into the large, double-doored building beside which he had halted the cart.

The little girl straightened herself and quickly proceeded to undo the complex harness, walking the placid animals inside - well, almost all placid: Patty, still green and volatile, reared at the first sound that came from the smithy and trotted away quickly before Siobhan could react.

"Well? What are you waitin' for, you little chit! Go 'n git that meatloaf off the middle o' the road!"

Seeing his short but stout form emerge from the barn, Siobhan trudged on her ten-year-old legs to the shivering mule. Murmuring soft, hidden words, the little girl hoisted herself up on the animal's back.

Now, maybe if Patty had not bolted at the stable door, if she had not angered Hank into coming back out, maybe things would have turned out differently. They did not. As it was, Hank was standing on the stable threshold when the band of mad riders appeared at one end of the street. By the time they galloped through the cluster of buildings, Siobhan had pushed Patty to the other side of the road hurriedly and hank had recognized the riders as Pawnees. But when they started firing their guns into the air, Siobhan had to duck deftly behind Patty, catching a glimpse of Hank turning to run for cover. All at once she noticed gun barrels peeking out of several windows, there was a loud metal clang as a bullet bounced off a bucket and a strangled cry rose. A strangled cry, coming from a across the street. Across the street.

Horror struck, Siobhan peeked under Patty's heaving belly - the mule was petrified with fear. The young girl found herself staring numbly at Hanks feet, it was the only thing she could see. Suddenly, her entire universe had been reduced to the scene in front of her: Hank lying there, in six inches deep of mud. Just like that. Already, the thumping hooves and yells were receding, but she didn't hear them. All she could feel, see, was her own heart still beating and the dead form of the man who was to take her home, lying on the side of the only street in the town of Tree Hill, middle of nowhere.

With a whimper she straightened and, forgetting Patty, ran across the street to kneel beside the body of the fat little man. Sure enough, there was a rapidly spreading red stain on his filthy shirt, on the right hand side, directly in his lung. Hank coughed, spurting out blood both from his mouth and wound. The next moment he was dead, drowned in his own blood. Siobhan let out a wail, faint but heartfelt. Distantly she heard footsteps on the matted, dry earth of the stable.

"Oh, Jesus" Someone swore softly: she didn't feel like reprimanding them, for the first time since she had learned what cursing was.

Surprising herself, she felt tears running down her cheeks. Her hand reached tentatively, of its own accord, toward the face of her employer, her guardian. She hadn't known him very well, but she had liked him, she realized. She had liked his gruffness, and the kindness that showed through every one of his insults. She had like that he treated her neither like a little girl or an animal, but simply like ignorant brat - which she was the first to acknowledge she was. Lightly, she touched his eyes and pulled the lids closed with respect as she had seen her Da do, that one time, when they were in New York.

"Now now, lass, this ain't no place for a girl." Said a deep, kind voice behind her. She heard a lighter footstep approaching and a hand little bigger then her own took her wrist away from the dead man's face.

The boy who stood before her watched Siobhan thoughtfully, his clear blue eyes examining her from head to toe. The man behind coughed and murmured something the little girl did not quite catch. The boy nodded without looking back at the man and, still hanging on to her wrist, led her away from the morbid scene.

Once they rounded the building the boy stopped abruptly and turned toward Siobhan.

"Don't worry, uncle Keith will take care of everythin', he's a good man." The tone seemed too serious for the blonde, freckled little boy, it seemed odd.

He glanced away hesitantly then let go of her wrist only to offer his hand.

"The name's Lucas Scott, but everyone calls me Luke."

Siobhan opened her mouth to answer mechanically, but her gaze wandered back to the corner of the house: she could still see Hank James' lifeless feet.

"I'm Haley." She would've left it at that, but the blonde arched an inquisitive eyebrow. Another glance at the weathered boots before they were covered by a thrown blanket. "My name's Haley James, pleased to meet you." She tried to keep the drawl out of her voice.

A/N: This is it for the prologue folks, I know it was pretty short, and I promise the actual chapters will be longer. Also, I'm going to try and really stay with the OTH characters personality wise and throw them into the civil war era, just to see where they'll take themselves. There's just one minor problem with that scenario: Peyton is really too modern to undergo the same treatment so I don't think she'll be making an appearance. Brooke might have a line or two though. Another note: Siobhan would be pronounced something like "shi-VAWN". So until next time, so long!

J.D. Lawrence


	2. chapter 1

A/N: Wow, I don't even want to know how long I've been sitting on this chapter. So I decided to finally post it (I'm still working on the second) and I hope you guys like it, and wish you all a very good read. 

Chapter 1 -- May 1861

With a grunt, Nathan pushed himself up and brushed the hay off his sweaty torso before shrugging the thick cotton shirt back on. Hay was not particularly comfortable - if not downright prickly - but the hayloft of the barn was by far the best place for these meetings: quiet, secluded, and you could always hear if someone came in while you were busy. Of course, Livvy never did stay long enough afterward to mind the pricks and the hay cuts: most days she had chores to attend to before Betty realized she was missing. The rest of the time, it was Nathan's distracted frown that deterred any hope of post-coital cuddling. The tall redhead never took long donning her corset back on - he never helped with the restrictive garment which enticed him so, barely moments before - along with her skirt and blouse before climbing carefully down the latter to the first level of the barn and leaving her boss' son to his somber musings. A content smile always appeared on her lips at that moment.

Once he was fully clothed, the young man slid deftly down the old wooden latter, barely earning an apathetic glance from a passively munching bull and a soft whinny from a gravid broodmare, as the rest of the barn inhabitants kept to their usual occupation: sleeping. Leaving the coolness of the tall building behind, he quickly ambled to his awaiting horse, a tall seven year-old stallion named Caliban. Before he could grab the reins of the snarling beast a soft, rolling laugh made him throw a glance over his shoulder. Sure enough, on a low stool and leaning on the barn wall behind him was Emmett, the old black farm hand - well, more of a gardener really - his large, deformed hat tilted to his nose, feigning sleep. But that was if you didn't know the old man, and as it happened, Nathan knew him very well: he had spent the first ten years of his life following the man around. A knowing grin gracing his lips, Nathan redirected his steps toward the old man, stopping dead in front of him, waiting. Slowly, ever so slowly, the same teasing smirk appeared at the black man's mouth and Nathan knew he'd been caught, again. It was hard hiding anything from the older man and the reason why Nathan had been in the barn at this hour of the day instead of roaming the fields with his father - as he should have been- was not hard to fathom.

"Ya checked if she left her apron up there this time 'round? Had a hard time explainin' that one to the boys the other day." The old man croaked.

"How long have you been out here?" A rueful smile played on the younger man's lips: it was not the first time they had this conversation.

"Not long enough to know anything your father might disapprove of." He tipped his hat so Nathan could plainly see the amusement in his gaze.

"Well, I better go find a couple o' strays before the day's out, or he'll have my hide anyway."

Emmett nodded: having worked for the owner of the Scott ranch for nearly twenty years, he was well aware of the tempers Dan Scott could get himself in over laziness or - well, over anything, really. With a slight movement of the head, Nathan saluted the older man and, tucking his black stetson securely onto his head, made his way back to his stomping horse and unwrapped the reins from the post. A glance at the sun told him he would not be expected home for several hours yet. He mounted the black steed in one swift motion, spurred him slightly and headed east for a small valley at the bottom of which a small grove always attracted cattle. The animals then found themselves unable to climb back up the abrupt slopes, weighted down as they were by their now clover-filled bellies. This year's winter had been mild, and if a fair number of longhorns had been brought down by coyotes, there was still an exceptional number roving the land in small herds, uncaught.

Nathan sighed: when his father decided he was satisfied with the number of heads gathered back from the winter, the branding would start. He knew most boys his age relished the responsibility, the adventure, the danger that provided a branding as large as the one that took place on the Scott ranch every spring, but he could not bring himself to share the sentiment. All he saw looming in the near future were ten days of dust and sun, the acrid smell of burnt hide, the screech of the terrified cattle, ten days in close quarters with Dan. His father, the great and respected Daniel Grant Scott, would be even more irascible then usual and there would be hell to pay for his son if he missed even one catch. Dan Scott was the owner of the largest spread a hundred miles around, or so it was said, and certainly one of the best cowboys there were, or at least he had been fifteen or twenty years ago. His exploits as a young man were still often discussed in Tree Hill, how he had broken that fierce mustang stallion with naught but a lariat and an hour in the corral. There was also that time he'd roped the biggest calf at the Durham rodeo in less time then anyone else that afternoon. There was no doubt about it, Dan Scott had been a local hero, and now, well, wasn't it time for his son to start showing some of the same greatness? Well, in the eyes of Tree Hill, he, indeed, was proving to be of the same breed. So why was Dan Scott still harrowing his son weekly about balance, focus and strength? Now, there was a question Nathan would've given much to know the answer to. Unfortunately, wondering the reason behind them was not going to make the pointed remarks disappear, and Nathan was still going to pay the high price of any misstep, as usual.

No, actually, not as usual: this year would be much worse.

Gloomily, Nathan thought back on the past weeks. Usually, his mother did not return to her husband's ranch until much later in the spring: sometimes they did not hear from her until the beginning of summer. But this year, Deborah Scott had undertaken the long journey from her mother's estate in San Francisco to Nebraska as soon as news had reached her of the quickly degenerating situation between Northern and Southern states in the east. It was with a sneer that Nathan had welcomed her explanation. For more then ten years now - ever since her father's death - Nathan's mother had spent barely a third of the year on the Scott ranch. She had taken up to traveling back to her home city for the winter - one cold season in Nebraska was enough to drive anyone insane, she said - and as the roads were as quickly blocked by snowfalls in the autumn as they were slow to dry in the spring, the 'cold season' rarely lasted for less then six months to Deb Scott's standards.

Nathan knew, deep inside, that her behavior could be rationalized. She had not been brought up to be a farmer's wife, she was a city woman through and through. No, the twists of fate had not prepared the young woman from the elite of the San Fransisco society for a life in the middle of never-ending plains, for bitter winters where you would see no one but the farm residents for weeks on end. After an early - and somewhat mysterious - marriage to the temperamental young rancher, it was still a wonder to Tree Hill folks that Dan Scott's dainty wife had remained with her family for the first eight years of her son's life. Nonetheless, people had nodded their head and exchanged 'I told you so's when, after news had come of her father's passing, the beautiful young blond had finally packed her bags and gone to visit her mother. At the time it seemed the only one surprised by her extended absence had been her son. The dark tempers into which his father had seemed to sink had occurred more and more often, but eight year-old Nathan still had not understood why his ever-present companion Emmett looked at him with a hint of regret which had not been there before. And when was Mother coming back? Surely four months was enough to see her dead father.

The boy's unease had quickly subsided when the energetic woman had come back revitalized from her trip to the west coast. She had quickly resumed her rightful place as the mistress of the household, and soon everything had seemed back to normal for the child. Well, that had not lasted very long. After only a few months the now nine year-old Nathan had come to the surprising conclusion that his parents did not like each other. There were pointed remarks and asinine comments thrown every which way, and the boy did not understand half of them. Before he knew it, his mother had been kissing him goodbye again, and this time there was a distinct chill between his father and her. She had not returned until late may the following year: it was so long that the ten year-old boy was not sure he knew her anymore. The same scenario had then repeated itself over and over, until Nathaniel Ewen Scott, now eighteen, considered the woman who slept alone in the west side of the house a complete stranger.  
Maybe if there had only been the yearly absence, Nathan would have felt some sort of attachment toward his mother, a feeling akin to love. But even the shreds of loyalty which still lingered somewhere in his heart for this woman did not blind him to her weak and impotent nature. He could not pin point the exact moment, but he knew that, somewhere along the years, his mother had picked up the habit of taking small doses of laudanum - to relieve the headaches, she had claimed. Of course, her need for the narcotic had only increased and now it seemed she could not go through her days without it. She had slowly but surely relinquished all authority on the household staff and she now spent most of her time in her room, either sleeping, reading or writing letters. Deborah Scott had become a mere shadow of the sparkling woman who had first arrived in Tree Hill, the woman Nathan remembered from his childhood. It seemed the only interactions she had were with Betty, her maid and wife of Emmett, and occasionally with her husband. These meetings never went well. Over the years, the coldness which Nathan had detected as a boy had first evolved into a frank dislike which in time had morphed into outright hate. She could not bear the sight of the man who had forced her to move to this god-forsaken land, uprooting her for everything she had once known, and this perversion of the woman he had once loved made his skin crawl, a daily reminder of his failure as a husband.

Nathan shuddered ar the mere thought of the scenes his parents caused when they could not avoid to acknowledge each other. Just the night before he had walked in from a long day's work gathering cows to a shouting match between his scarlet faced father and a surprisingly lucid Deb Scott. Normally he would've gone straight to the kitchen to glean something to eat from Betty or Livvy, ignoring the dispute altogether, but one sentence from his mother had sufficed to catch his attention.

"He needs an education, Dan!"

There it was. His parents were arguing about him. He knew his education was sore subject with his mother, it had always been, but he had not been aware they were still fighting over it. Raised in the city, Deb Scott had learned ht to read and write at an early age, she had even studied the basics of mathematics, and taken extensive courses in history and foreign languages. Dan's bringing up, on the other hand, had not entailed more then what was necessary for a farmer to make a decent living. He knew just about enough of calculating to make his ranch a prospering business, reading and writing basics had been provided by his wife in the first years of their marriage, but when it came to anything else, the older Scott knew what was important to know when working a farm and he was damned if he was going to let his wife distract their son from the family business just to make him into a city boy who did not know what to do with his ten fingers. As a result from this conflict, Nathan had learned just about enough of reading and writing in the first years of his life to allow him to function with some dignity when trading in town or when an occasional preacher celebrated the rites.

Nathan realized it now, his mother's prolonged absences had made him his father's son through and through. Dan Scott had taught him the subtleties of roping, making him practice with a lariat as soon as he showed the first signs of maturity. History and geography were still unbroached topics, but the attitudes to adopt when approaching a mustang and the different ways to capture a herd of wild horses with as few men as possible had been imprinted in his mind by the age of 12. This, of course, had never shamed him, for he evolved in a society where most every one was of the same caliber, if not below.

He was not quite sure how to react to the realization that he had no education, that except for ranching, there wasn't much else he was good for in life, well... maybe other things, or so Livvy sometimes implied, but nothing that could earn him a living. Should he be angry with his father? Maybe - probably, but then he should also be angry with himself for giving in, for submitting to his father's dictatorship, for being spineless. Should he be grateful to the man for making him one of the best calf-ropers in the county? Maybe he should blame his mother for letting this happen? And even if the old Whitey Durham said he was the most promising horse wrangler he'd seen, well, wasn't there more to life then this? He didn't know. And it was exactly that blindness, that frustrating uncertainty for which he resented his parents.

With an irritated cry, he whipped Caliban's croup to push the horse to a gallop. The nervous steed did not need the physical stimulation, and quickened his pace until he was devouring the even ground in front of him. Nathan's mind tuned out until all he could do was feel the furious beating of the hooves on the grassy earth, the wind catching in his shirt. There were still moments where he could forget the disaster that awaited him at home every night, moments he did not have to worry about his performance at the Durham rodeo next month, moments when it was just him, Caliban and the range that went on for as far as the eye could see. These were the moments that kept him sane.

Far too soon for his liking, Nathan came upon the small valley - more of a hollow, really -, which lay at the connection of three larger hills. As he had predicted, he quickly spotted a calf struggling up the abrupt slope, its weak legs refusing to cooperate with its will. At the top of the knoll and obliviously munching down everything it could find, the mother did not even notice when its baby started clambering fearfully down the slope at the sight of the cowboy. Without hesitation, Caliban launched himself in its trail as Nathan threw his rope. It settled neatly around its hind leg, but the animal did not notice it was caught until Caliban responded to his rider's command, stopping abruptly, and the calf was yanked back - hard. Swiftly, Nathan hopped off his mount and, leaving the rope attached to the horn of the saddle, ambled to the flailing animal. A few precise movements later, the rope was secured around three of the calf's legs which lay, completely disabled, throwing wild looks at the cowboy. Back in Caliban's saddle in no time, Nathan spurred the stallion and the calf was thus pulled, if rather roughly, to the top of the hill where it was freed and quickly rejoined its mother, trembling.

"No need for thanks, 'was my pleasure." Nathan muttered to himself, coiling the rope back quickly.

It was then that something odd caught his eye. Down at the very bottom of the little valley, was a young woman. What in heaven's name is she doing? She was standing, bare foot, on the croup of an old mule, her head lost in the thick foliage of an old, gnarled beech tree. One arm was stretched out at waist height to keep her balance, while the other one seemed busy doing something else, above her head. He approached slowly, leading Caliban down the slope and into the hollow. An easy jump over a gully led him to stand, still upon his tall stallion, a mere fifteen feet away from the girl upon her mule. He heard her muttering to the shabby animal.

"I swear Patty, if you move so much as an inch I'll box your ears so hard you'll wish I'd torn them off instead." She said, obviously addressing the inattentive mule.

Patiently, Nathan watched her small feet stretching as rustling sounds came from within the confines of the leaves. He still looked on as the small patch of clover the mule had been munching slowly started to dim and a slight smile appeared on his lips when the animal began to smell around for a little more of the sweet-tasting plant. Oh, he could see exactly what was coming. Just as the young woman emitted a small yip of triumph, the animal moved under her feet to look for its food elsewhere, and the small giggle changed into a fearful shriek. Nathan had expected her to come crashing down on her behind, but she caught on to a thick branch just in time and dangled there for a few seconds.

"You stupid, stupid animal! I swear you'll be made into dog meat by next winter! You brainless meatloaf!"

Nathan's grin extended into a full smile : only a woman could curse an animal this way, and a very proper one at that. He watched, amused, as she struggled to climb up on the branch. Feet and ankles were not something women usually bared for any man to see - well, not proper women in any case - but he found the sight of her small, dust-smeared toes quite endearing. With a final swing she hoisted herself up on the branch and for a few seconds he completely lost sight of her. Then she let herself fall lightly from the branch, holding securely against her chest a large, awkward object.

Feeling compelled to make his presence known, now that she was standing on firm ground, albeit turning her back to him, he announced:

"G'day, miss..." He left the sentence hanging, indicating that he wished to know her name.

She spun on her heels quickly, the look of a fearful doe on her face. The fist thing he noticed was that the object she had been so bent on getting out of the tree had been a kite made of thin branches and some sort of waxed paper. The second thing he noticed was her face: he knew her, or at least he knew of her. Her name was Ally, Holly or some such. She lived at the saloon with that Roe woman, and with Lucas... He knew his gaze darkened threateningly at the thought of the older boy, but he did not try to conceal his dislike.

Likewise, her expression, which had simply been apprehensive at first, now reflected a strong dislike for him and a spark of... was that challenge he read in her eyes? The large brown pools looked up at him almost defiantly. The gaiety he'd felt moments before had quickly subsided and a new feeling of cold anger clenched his heart.

"What are you doing on my land?" He asked testily, not even trying to explain everything that was wrong with her being there.

"Stealing your cattle, what does it look like, mister Scott?" The sarcastic reply was made in a sharp tone.

Ouch, he had been presumptuous, stating the land as his, and she had called him on it: it stung.

"You've got no business here." He tried a different approach, calmly.

She opened her mouth to retort, but nothing came out. She frowned, not knowing what to say. With a satisfied grin, Nathan gathered up his reins.

"Yeah, thought so... Now get on your - I wouldn't want to call this a mount - well, your animal anyway, I'll escort you back to town, just so you don't lose your way. You live with miss Roe, right?" He couldn't help it, the remark about the mule had been in good humor, but clearly naming her benefactress had been meant to hurt.

Karen Roe was unmarried, everyone knew this, and that made the existence of her son quite... unusual. In all honesty, Nathan did not much care about her marital status, he only knew that he hated Lucas Roe with a passion, and he had his own reasons for that. But the fact remained that in the small, close-knit community that was Tree Hill, Karen Roe was looked upon quite coolly by the vast majority of women, and thus, by any man who aspired to marry one of said women or their daughters.

Sure enough, the shot hit the target and a pained look appeared on the young woman's features. Smoothing a nervous hand down her dress, she visibly tried to regain her composure. Shooting him a last dark glare she quickly made for the mule, which was still grazing patiently a little distance away. Only pausing to grab a long stick from the ground, the young woman hoisted herself on the mule, kite under her arm, so as to sit amazon style on its bony back. With a whispered word and a touch of the stick, the mule was set in motion and proceeded to climb up the slope with as much dignity as could be expected.

Nathan watched them go for a few moments, surprised at the ease with which she managed a beast whose species was renowned for its indocility. He finally shook himself and spurred Caliban on, earning a soft chuckle of pleasure from the avid stallion. The mustang galloped up the hill swiftly, but neighed reproachfully when his rider held him back at the top to wait for the smaller and much slower animal.

"You're really going to escort me back to town?" The young woman asked, disbelieving.

"Why? Are you afraid for your reputation if you're seen with me?" He taunted, his tone clearly insinuating that this notoriety ensued from a less than respectable way of living.

"No, I rather expected you would be afraid to contradict your own repute by doing something this... gallant... in public." She shot back directly, looking at him frankly.

The young man's gaze snapped away from hers as soon as it met the shining disapproval in her eyes. So this was what she thought of him? Someone to whom basic politeness and good manners were totally foreign? Of course, he had to admit to himself, the few times they came in contact with one another were always on occasions when he either had something to celebrate, or something was very wrong, it was thus very probable that he was not on his best behavior. Indeed, opportunities to go drinking at the town saloon were so scarce that whenever he had the occasion to bypass his father's orders, he made sure he had the most fun out of the evening with his friends. This sometimes - often - led to very animated evenings at the Westward Way, where she lived with the Roe woman. And even if he did not see much of her in those circumstances, there were always the times he had to visit his uncle Keith at the smithy on an errand for his father - she always seemed to hang around the building, oftentimes with Lucas - or when he drove a farmhand or other to Doc Gabster's office for the most serious injuries - ranching could be a very dangerous business. No, on these - few and far between - occasions he was never very pleasant to her, and sometimes, he knew very well, rather mean. But then he thought, what reason did he have not to act this way? She was, after all, no better than the Roe woman, living as she was in one of the saloon rooms, upstairs. Who knew how many men she had taken up to her bed already? At the Westward Way, three dollars could buy a warm body any day of the year, and since Lucas' mother was leaving her younger days behind, well... some liked them fresh. And she was friends with Lucas, of all people! Another reason to despise her, another reason to avoid her.

So why did he not avoid her? Why did he not despise her?

Nathan pushed the thought back in a corner of his mind when he realized he had not replied to her barely veiled insult. Biting back a comment about there not being any gallantry in making sure a woman of questionable virtue did not wander about one's land alone, he opted for a different tactic. He ignored her last comment and decided to attack from another angle.

"So you never did tell me what you were doin' on my father's land." He eyed the kite under her arm with a laughing glance.

Did she have nothing better to do than ride around playing childish games? Well, Nathan figured, she probably only worked during the night, leaving her her days to laze around.

"I... It's..." She stuttered at first, before catching herself and sending him a dark glare. "I was doing a friend a favor." she let out, the stiffness of her posture seeping into her voice.

The tone had been so final, so devoid of any shame or insinuation, that any lewd comment from Nathan would have fallen flat, and he knew it. He wondered why she was acting so prim and proper. The whores he had met on his trips to Durango during the yearly drive had been, if rarely proud, at least conscious that the trade of their body made them less than respectable. Even Saphronie and Tabitha, Tree Hill's long-time resident prostitutes, seemed resigned to their state and did not try to pass as something they were not. No one had any doubts as to why they disappeared regularly in the back-room of Karen Roe's honky-tonk in the company of some man or other, nor why they slammed one dollar on the bar when they emerged later, which the barman swiftly slipped into the cash-box. No, these two never tried to salute the few properly married women that lived in the area, they never tried to dress modestly, they always, always kept to the back of the crowd when a preacher came to town. Karen Roe on the other hand, while still not dressing like a proper woman ought to, still refused men who asked about her price, at least she did in public, and although not a man in Tree Hill had ever been successful with his advances, it was common knowledge fact that she had been living off her body in Deadwood barely fifteen years ago. A woman's virtue, once lost, was never redeemable and Karen Roe had lost hers a long time ago, when Lucas was born out of wedlock. Nathan cringed every time he thought of the blood ties that bound him to the bastard. But Haley - he remembered her name now -, well, all he really knew about her was that one day she had ridden into town with the mule driver that brought the mail, and after an unfortunate incident involving a couple of drunken Pawnee half-breeds and a shoot out, the mule driver had died, leaving the child to fend for herself. Before anyone could ponder the question, she had been taken in by the only woman in town with room and food to spare: Karen Roe, owner of the Westward Way. Of course, after being taken in by a prostitute, even a reformed one - if rumors were true -, and living in a drinking house with two soiled women, well, chances were the girl had not remained innocent very long. And here she was, sixteen and with lips that were made for sin, acting as if everything he said was an affront to her purity!

A hollow in the conversation turned into a valley of silence and Nathan raked his brain furiously for something to say, something to ease the tension. That last thought surprised him: why would he want to ease the tension? After all, he should be trying to make her as uncomfortable as was in his power! Even if she did not act like a prostitute did not mean she was not one, and she was friends with that... that... Lucas. In these circumstances, what politeness did he owe her?

He glanced at the petite woman sitting proudly on her shabby mule. Her hair, still braided down her back like a little girl's, added to the air of purity she assumed. Its mahogany color reminded him of his father's desk, the one they had sold two good saddle horses to purchase a few years ago. His gaze slid to her eyebrows, tightly knotted above those doe-like eyes. Nathan realized she was blushing and he grinned, knowing it was his staring that made her react in such an endearing fashion. Looking away and up to the sun, he realized escorting the young woman off the property was taking much longer than expected: the old mule really was taking her own sweet time.

" 's quite a steed you got there" The young man remarked playfully.

"Patty's served her purpose well over the years." The young woman's tone was as flat as ever, her frown deepening.

"Sure, but look at her. She's gettin' old, there ain't no denying it. She's heavy in the joints, and her hinds are hurtin'. That mule is barely skin and bones: you'd be doin' the beast a favor puttin' a bullet between her eyes." He paused, assessing the almost friendly tone his voice had taken without his realizing it."Wasn't she one of ol' Hank's lot anyhow?" He finished gruffly.

He could see she had been ready to explode when he had suggested she should put the beast down, but at the question that followed she paused, shock etched on her pretty features.

"How...? You know 'bout Hank?" He had not realized this would come as a surprise to her.

"Darlin', in a county where the whole population totals up to 'bout a hundred souls, without the indjuns, people tend to hear about it when the mailman gets dead by a couple o' shit-faced Pawnees." He kept his gaze forward, denying her the eye contact he knew she sought with her own searching eyes.

After a beat he glanced her way. She looked satisfied with his explanation: he should have left it at that. He looked away, hesitated, then let it out:

"And they 'specially tend to hear 'bout it when the town harlot takes up a ten year-old apprentice."

He regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth, not really knowing why. Had he really meant his tone to be so damn righteous? In a flash the Young man realized he had sounded every bit as sententious as his father when admonishing his intoxicated wife or his dissipated son. Nathan noted her back had stiffened, which was no small feat - she had already been as straight as a fence post. Her eyes were riveted on the ground, but he could see her knuckles turning white as she gripped the branch in her hands. If he hadn't known better, he might've thought she was going to give him a sound whipping. After what seemed to be an eternity, she finally spoke.

"Thank you for your concern for my safety, Mr. Scott. The town's not very far now, and I wouldn't want to ruin your reputation by being seen at your arm. G'day."

Her face was blank, but she might as well have been laughing at him openly: they both knew his reputation could not be ruined by something like this, people knew him too damn well to expect anything else from him. With these sardonic last words she heeled Patty to a quick trot. Still, Nathan couldn't help but smile as the small figure distanced herself so proudly: the effect was somewhat spoiled by the mule's limp. He could've caught up with her easily, but somehow he thought she would not like that, ans so refrained himself. He was surprised when she halted only ten feet away from him and turned. He stopped Caliban's slow walk with a soft "whoa", waiting for the insult that was bound to be shot his way.

"The only prostitutes in the town are Saphronie and Tabitha, be sure to remember it."

He had missed the pain in her eyes before, but now it hit him in the guts and he realized he was probably not the first to make a remark on the subject.

"Haley..." What was wrong with him that he felt like he should apologize?

"My name is miss James to you sir, g'day."She said flatly as she turned away again.

He stared at her retreating back for a long time - Patty really was very slow -, puzzled by the odd feeling of regret fluttering in his stomach. He wasn't supposed to feel this way! With a frustrated growl, he adjusted his stetson and spurred Caliban so suddenly that the stallion reared, surprised. With an expert hand he whirled the horse around, and, galloping, set off to his awaiting chores.

When he finally returned home, the sky was near complete darkness, and the thin white fang of the moon slashed through the sky dimly, leaving the land to its shadows. The young man cursed as he stumbled upon a rock while making his way from the barn to the house. After he had finished rubbing down Caliban, he had left the lantern with Emmett: the old man slept in the barn these days, to keep an eye on the gravid mare that was about to drop. Emmett knew how to read, and, late at night, he liked to keep himself entertained with one of the few books he owned. The fact that the old black man knew how to read while he did not had never really bothered Nathan, because he had never seen reading as essential, but now he found himself wondering. Should he have agreed to the older man's offer to teach him? At the time he had laughed it off like it had no real importance, but now, having heard the urgency in his mother's voice as she stood up to the man whose wrath most people fled, he pondered over the possibilities. Leaving his land for San Fransisco was out of the question, but maybe, just maybe, he could learn here? He doubted he could pull his mother out of her intoxicated stupor, and spending more time with her then necessary was not a very appealing idea, but Emmett... well Emmett had taught him the basics of roping, surely he could do the same with reading? No, of course not, his father would then surely find out, deem it a waste of time and send Nathan on his way. The old man would never agree to keep it a secret from his employer. For some reason, Emmett's loyalty had always lain first and foremost with Dan, for reasons the young man had never been able the fathom.

Before ascending the steps that led up to the house, Nathan quickly unbuckled his spurs and wiped his boots in the fresh spring grass - Betty was adamant about keeping the carpets clean and tear-free. Of course, worrying about such things should have been his mother's role, but she had relinquished the responsibilities so long ago that Nathan could not now imagine a house where the old black woman's word was not law. He pushed the door open quietly, apprehending a dazed comment from his mother but most of all fearing the probable reproach from his father. He could not fathom why they still insisted on keeping up appearances by eating supper 'as a family', but tardiness for said supper was unforgivable, and he was late, very late : caught up in his own thoughts, Nathan had let Caliban carry him much farther than he had intended, passed the Grey Fox hill and very near what was considered Pawnee sacred land. There he had found a dozen heads grazing quietly where no one would look for them. Herding the cows had slowed his return home and now he was seriously considering going to bed on an empty stomach in order to avoid any form of confrontation with his father. As it was, he was not given a choice.

The door to his father's study - more of a retreat away from his wife, really - was ajar. Daniel Scott spent most of his evenings there, claiming to be working on the books for the ranch. Three times out of four he left it reeking of alcohol. The hum of a very intense conversation warned him that his father was not alone in the room, but before he could duck into the kitchen, Deborah Scott hurried out into the hall, huffing and puffing, leaving the door wide open to reveal a most definitely furious Daniel Scott standing behind his desk. The tall woman stopped dead in her tracks when she noticed her son standing awkwardly near the kitchen door. Nathan eyed his mother wearily, ready to bolt at the first sign of narcotic-instilled raving. Her eyes were not as clouded as usual and she seemed to stand firmly enough on her feet, and even if she was wringing her hands unconsciously, she seemed more lucid then he had seen her since her arrival. She opened her mouth to say something, and Nathan recognized the look. She wore the expression she always had when she was about to say something sentimental, an expression which had been usual in his younger days but which had appeared much less frequently if not rarely, in the past years. He stopped whatever she was about to say as best he could:

"Good night mother." He knew his eyes were cold even if he was not trying to make them so, but he also knew he could not endure the humiliation of one of his mother's teary declarations of love with his father standing in the doorway, towering over the unfolding scene.

Deborah Scott bit back what she had been about to say, looking defeated, and added dejectedly:

"Good night, Nathaniel. I'm... I..." She sighed, "I have a headache, I'll head to bed now."

She retreated up the stairs, a ghastly air about her as she glided up the wooden steps in her white interior dress, weighed down by rows of lace, her golden hair barely gathered in a bun. When he was a child, she used to always make him kiss her good night when they parted for bed. "To keep the nightmares away" she had said it was, but now she kept them at bay by mixing a few drops of laudanum in the small glass of water she always kept on her night stand. Or maybe now she did not even mix it?

His attention snapped back to his father when the older man coughed, as if to dissipate the tension his wife's behavior had cast over the house. He beckoned his son to follow him into the office.

"Where were you today, son? None of the boys saw you out by the woods where y'all were supposed to be catchin' strays." That was, and always would be, his father: avoiding one confrontation by creating another.

For some reason Dan Scott had never even broached the subject of his wife's yearly migration south with his son, much less her shameful addiction to the powerful narcotic. It seemed the topic of his conversation with his wife was to be kept from his son, again.

"I went to the little valley north o' the old indjun site. Cattle is always gettin' caught down that slope."

"And did ya find any?" The man was not happy and he was taking a darn long time getting to it.

"Did, and pulled them back out," he paused: should he mention Haley? He knew a reminder of Karen Roe's existence could only further anger the older man, but heck, if you're gonna burn a wound, best do it with a white-hot blade and be done with it. "There was also that girl, the one that came with ol' Hank's mail wagon the year he was shot."

"What?" his father barked,"You mean that chippy that lives in the saloon? What was she doin' on my land!" Dan Scott never asked, he demanded.

Barely registering the similarity between his and Dan's first reaction, Nathan could not help a smile at the thought of her small body dangling wildly from the tree where her kite had been stuck. What had she been doing there? Weren't there a thousand places she could've played with it?

When he saw his father's accusing stare, the young man understood his smile had been misinterpreted.

"I sincerely hope for you she wasn't there for professional reasons?" It was more of a statement, but then again, it was always this way with Dan Scott.

Nathan found himself wanting to explain to his closed-minded father that she was nothing like he imagined, that her behavior was that of a proper girl and miles from what he met in Durango every time he went there. It was as if hearing his father proffer the same accusation he had that afternoon made him realize how utterly ridiculous the thought was. Declaring the young woman a prostitute was like comparing a dove to a carrion. He did not know exactly where, between the tree-filled comb and his father's study, he had given up the idea that she was a scarlet woman, but there it was. And now he couldn't understand why he'd ever believed the opposite.

"I... No, Father, she's not -" He stopped himself just in time: defending anyone in someway related to Karen Roe was just asking for an outburst,"I don't think that's why she was there" That was neutral enough, it would do.

Somewhat appeased, Dan Scott mumbled, shuffling with his papers:

"Probably waitin' for one o' 'em half-bloods. They sure got money to spare on a white whore, with all those cows they been stealin' from us."

Nathan clenched his fists, trying to ignore the comment. Why was he getting all worked up over this? He'd never had a problem with his father's asinine comments - well, except when they were directed at him -, but the strange feeling of -...was this outrage? or violation?- was so disturbing he decided he would delve into it later.

"Holsten 'n Gary found us a herd o' nice mustangs." Nathan's eyebrows shot up, surprised that the older man would drop the subject of Haley's questionable ways so easily. "Cast-away studs mostly. They locked 'em up in the big pen, I thought we'd take a crack at them tomorrow. You'll wanna be ready for Durham's rodeo next month! Right, son?" Nathan tried to quell the rebellion that he felt rise in his guts when he met his father's weighing and measuring look.

"Sure thing, Father. Is that all?" He was eager to leave before the older man fell into another one of his well-meant but ô-so-infuriating lectures about the importance of upholding the family honor in public.

"Yes."Dan answered finally, but as Nathan crossed the threshold he added: "You should probably take a look at your working saddle... was pretty beat up last year. Just to be sure." Glancing back, Nathan saw the satisfied smirk on his father's face.

"Yeah..." Nathan's lips curled into a wry grin as soon as he closed the door behind him: his father was so good at pretending, but he knew by the time he was done cleaning up the training saddle, his father would be saturated with the strong liquor he kept hidden in the lower drawer of his desk.

The next morning found Nathan's father in an even darker mood than the night before, after the confrontation with his wife. The young man had learned from Betty that Deb Scott had joined her husband at breakfast for the first time since her arrival, three weeks earlier. Reading between the maid's words, Nathan understood the face off had been very strained. Betty's refusal to divulge what the topic of their conversation still puzzled Nathan, but when the old black woman had finally stated, in a no-nonsense tone he had come to know and respect, "Things were said that were not meant for you to hear, and that is all you'll get out of me", the young man had been forced to give up. He couldn't say that his parents' secrets for him really bothered him - he had grown quite used to it and did not really mind being left out of those arguments - but he wondered if his mother was still adamant about his getting an education. The thought of being forced to leave the ranch had made him toss and turn all night. Could he really leave the plains behind? The thought made him tremble inside like nothing ever had before.

Berating himself for falling back in his dark pondering of the previous night, the young man reminded himself that it was only his imagination running wild: after all, he had heard nothing of any wish his mother might have to bring him with her the next time she left Tree Hill. No, these were all only speculations. Having regained a certain peace of mind, Nathan watched stoically as his father threw his rope around one horse's neck in one clean movement.

Most were still awed by the slight flick of the wrist, the steadiness of the loop, the whistling of the rope as it traveled swiftly through the air. Not Nathan. From the age of twelve the technique had been ingrained in him, so thoroughly incorporated to his movements, that now all he could see was the stiffness in his father's shoulder, the slight hesitation before the rope left his hand. He had been somewhat shocked when he had realized he now surpassed the all-prevailing Dan Scott in both skills and strength. Stunned, he had thought the old hierarchy might crumble, the sharp remarks would somehow subside, Dan Scott's authoritarian reign would end. Nothing had changed, and Nathan had kept quiet about this newfound superiority. After all, he valued his life and health, and if his father wanted to pretend like he was still the bigger man, his son was certainly not going to stand in the way. If there was anything Dan Scott despised more than Karen Roe, it was failure, especially his own.

Nathan sat atop Caliban near the fence of a large holding pen, waiting for the fog of sleepiness to wash from his eyes before he joined the others inside. It figured that after his tense breakfast Dan Scott would haul everyone out of bed at the crack of dawn to work out some of his frustration on the wild horses that had been brought in the day before. Holsten was helping his boss isolate an appaloosa mare from the small herd, but the beast was being difficult, rearing and bucking each time one of the riders came near her. Upon his tall, broad-chested gelding, Dan Scott was getting angrier by the second: his horse was responding to the mare with as much hostility as it was receiving, which did not help the process. Holsten's mare was simply scared out of her wits: she was barely four years old and had been broken only the previous fall, she was not trained enough for such work. The reluctant mare trotted back to the middle of the herd with a high, taunting neigh.

With a smirk for his elders, Nathan finally moved forward, satisfied that both men had waited long enough for his help. Calmly, he led Caliban to the gate of the large paddock where the action was taking place.

"Don't you dare bring that damn stud near this one, son. We ain't here for a blood bath!" Dan Scott bellowed.

He had been against his Nathan's choice of a mount from the start. The young man had picked him out of a small wild herd out on the range, he had been 14, still a boy, and the horse had not even been fully grown. The stallion was too violent, territorial, and unreliable, Dan had argued with his son, trying to steer him toward an aged-looking warmblood from the east coast. He had wanted the stud castrated as soon as possible. Truth was, he hadn't been able to train the beautiful beast properly himself, and he was sharply aware of the fact. So when the boy had caught him back from the wild a few months later and brought him to the ranch kicking and rearing, when he had rebroken the tall stallion into something resembling a ridable horse, he had been taken by surprise - and very quick to put his foot down. The horse had been the first thing - if certainly not the last - Nathan had ever defied him over, riding the quick-footed beast with much dexterity and surprising results, even when he had been expressly forbidden to take him out. In the end, Dan Scott had been forced to admit that both the boy's and the horse's volatile tempers meshed well together and if he was to see his son uphold the family honor, it would have to be on this horse. That had been six years previous and Dan still did not trust Caliban.

"Let's show him, boy." He muttered to the tall, black-eyed horse, blatantly ignoring his father's order and approaching the appaloosa confidently.

Dan Scott was known for his black moods, and Nathan had often born the brunt of the assault. Once the frustration had stewed long enough, anything could set off the older man. The smallest irritation was then blown out of proportion until the real cause of the onslaught was thoroughly forgotten. The young man was used to his father's anger, used to the seething bellows, the irrational behavior, and the inevitable, insinuated insults. What worried Nathan at the moment was the apparent lack of reaction to his success with the mare. Usually his father found a way to give a spin to Nathan's exploits such as you would think Dan had done it all himself, but the few times this tactic had failed had all triggered the pent up frustration Dan seemed to accumulate continuously. But now, being faced with a relatively pragmatic Dan Scott, Nathan found him self almost wishing for an all-out outburst on his recklessness, on how the mare was now so exhausted nothing could be gotten out of her,on how he had disobeyed a direct order. Still, the question remained: what was it that was abating -outwardly, at least- his father's ire to mere irritation? Nathan was pulled away from his thoughts when Carter, a small, lean man they had hired only the previous month, pulled his horse to a walk to fall in beside both father ans son.

The man looked more like a desperado then a ranch-hand and even if his inability to wield a lariat without hurting himself or his horse had almost gotten him fired at first, his otherwise surprising dexterity had proved very helpful in tending injured cattle and horses. Still, Nathan knew he would not remain long in Tree Hill. His wandering eye had already caused him quite a bit of trouble with a few of Tree Hill's most respected citizens - eying the doctor's wife up and down like a sightly mare with her husband nearby had not proved very diplomatic - and Nathan suspected those agile hands of his to have a knack for opening locks and safes just as easily as mending ugly wounds.

"So, Sumner just got back in town from that auction in Durango. Told me he got some pretty good stock, if you're interested, boss." The man said without preamble, a large piece of tobacco rolling around in his mouth, causing him to spit out brown saliva at every sentence.

"Did he come by the ranch?" irritation piercing through the casual question, but then again, when was Dan Scott not irritated.

"Nah, saw him las' night at the Westward Way, says he was lackin' companionship on the trip back: seemed in a mighty hurry to get Tabitha alone in that back room!" A wry smile appeared on Carter's mouth, revealing the gap where one of his front teeth should have been.

"Well he went to the right place for that."

If Nathan had not known better he might've thought his father really meant the playful remark, he might've seen the frank smile as a sign of honesty and good nature. As it was, the young man had seen Dan Scott use his charm on too many people - men and women alike - not to see through the facade he himself could put up so easily. He knew in reality his father wished for nothing more then to berate the hired man for associating with such loose women or even just for stepping foot into the Westward Way. But Dan Scott's hatred for Karen Roe had to remain a secret to the public eye, lest they might figure out the reason behind it: Nathan had always wondered how his father could still pretend when everyone had already noticed that both boys shared not only their last name, but also the autumn twilight blue of their eyes.

"Have you heard, boss? There's a travelin' reverend in town. Heard he was gonna celebrate mass next Sunday."

"This town could use a little religion."

"Yeah, I guess. There's talk he's gonna settle here. Wouldn't that be a change?" Replied the hired man enthusiastically, not picking up on the bitter edge that crept in his boss' words.

There were always people to say the traveling reverends were going to settle in Tree Hill, but they never did. There were so many little towns just like it scattered over the plain that it was almost like a holiday when a clergyman decided to stay in Tree Hill for a few days. Men would wear ties and women take out their best dresses, and once or twice a year they would all gather down at the prairie by the White River to hear spoken the words of Christ. Such display of good christian faith and integrity was never missed by Daniel Scott, and Nathan had learned to appreciate those days when his father would have to divide his attention between the holy service, making sure his wife did not embarrass him by dosing off during the service, thus leaving Nathan free to amuse himself. From an early age the son of the puritan Dan Scott had learned to relish days of prayer for all the sins he was then free to commit.

Of course the few hours of freedom came at a price. Always the overachiever, Dan Scott never failed to volunteer his son's help for the setting up of the tent, the cutting of the logs for the wooden benches or the building of a small stage. He had even gone as far as enrolling the boy into holding the votive candle during the ceremony. Fortunately for Nathan, hat had only been that once, at the demand of all those who had received droplets of molten wax when ten year-old Nathan, wanting to stretch his his aching muscles, had accidentally tipped the candle over the pious audience. Rare were those who noticed that it had taken a certain effort for the boy to stretch to that precise angle and that it was young Lucas Scott, son of the infamous Karen Roe, who received the better part of the searing shower.

"There won't be any minister in Tree Hill until people put their money in the same pot to pay him a proper chapel." His father's voice came as sharply as it always did when discussing this particular frustration.

It was a well-known fact throughout the region that Dan Scott was one of the few land-owners ready to contribute to the establishment of a permanent chapel. Finding the funds for a project such as this was a difficult task since most farmers barely made enough to feed and clothe their own large families. Those who did have the financial freedom often saw the settlement of a reverend as the first step in the evolution of the camp into something they did not want it to become. Of course, they could not be against the brothels, the hotels and the business that came with such an evolution, but they were all too aware that sheriffs were also part of the package, along with deputies and marshals. There was also the inevitable establishment of less desirable organizations, such as the Women Society for Good Manners, bake sales, Sunday tea and the Association of Wives Against Alcohol. Consequently, landowners ready to participate in paying for a permanent church and a minister's food and board were scarce. Even Dan Scott had failed to rally the necessary sum, unable to sway any of his neighbors and only his closest friends. This failure had left him somewhat bitter on the subject and anyone who knew him well steered clear of the topic for fear of setting off the half-hour long sermon which Dan always kept at the ready. Obviously Carter had not learned to know his boss quite yet. Nathan sighed and steeled himself for the lecture he felt was coming.

Sunday morning arrived with painful slowness for Nathan who was eager to meet up with his friends in town. Adding to the torture of the wait, Dan Scott had been on everyone's back for days, repeating more times then necessary how the show saddles had to be cleaned, the carriage had to be fixed, and how Mrs Scott had to be properly dressed and coiffed for the occasion. Finally, after a Saturday of hurrying and scurrying about, the Scotts had left the ranch at the crack of dawn, so that they would be just in time to help the rest of the villagers to set up the tent and parade around importantly for a moment. Riding beside his father, Nathan had quickly tuned out the shrill bickering of his parents. All too aware of the far-away look in his wife's gaze, Dan Scott was trying his darnest to straighten her up before they reached the cluster of wooden buildings that was Tree Hill. Quickly after their arrival in town, though, Dan's attention shifted from his intoxicated wife to the rumors that reached their ears more and more insistently as they progressed down the main street, toward the white river.  
"Did you hear about the new church?"

"Did they finally find the money?"

"I heard reverend Johnson is going to settle here, isn't that great?"

"Yes, Karen Roe, of all people!"

"Well that Dan Scott sure is going to..."

Nathan noticed with some amusement the increasing redness of his father's face. They had started hearing whispers and murmurs as soon as they had passed the first group of pedestrians heading to the prairie. that morning, and more then once Karen Roe's name had been mentioned in a tone of approval and gratitude - nothing to improve his father's already high-strung temper.

Riding alongside Dan Scott, Nathan knew the older man attracted the eye of both men and women. Atop his tall bay gelding and wearing his best shirt and tie, Dan Scott offered the very image of the prosperous rancher. And if the perfectly formed white stetson and the shiny spurs were not enough to show his wealth, a perfectly behaved Deb Scott sat mutely in the wagon behind them, properly dressed and pampered all the way to the delicate umbrella she held daintily between her fingers. Nathan pushed away the memory of the morning screaming match between the two and exchanged a forced smile with Emmett who sat peacefully, driving the wagon.

Their small party finally reached the little field where the tent was set up on the few and far between occasions a reverend came to town. A crowd had gathered as usual and Nathan waved to some of his friends. Before he could hop off Caliban and join the preparations, a tall, broad shouldered man with a mean air about him stepped in front of the Scott party.

"Dan." The man nodded toward the older man, gravely.

"Jerry." Dan answered stoically, jumping off his horse in one showy motion.

The two men had been business partners for many years and a mutual respect, as well as a similar opinion on several controversial issues - e.g. Karen Roe...- had tied the bonds of friendship between the two most important land owners of the area. Nathan quickly jumped off Caliban to join them, curious to know the reason behind Jerry Smith's somber expression.

"What's this I hear about Karen Roe?" his father begun.

"Aye, seems her honky-tonk's been getting a lot of business. Announced this morning she'd be donating two hundred dollars to Reverend Johnson for the building of a chapel here in Tree Hill.

"Two hundred...?" Dan Scott was shocked. "Well, we all know where that money comes from! Are we going to let her buy absolution for her sins? Surely the reverend will refuse the donation, he can't possibly accept it, coming from..." Dan Scott stopped speaking and the crowd of onlookers followed his gaze to what had distracted him.

Pushing through the crowd, Nathan recognized his uncle Keith, striving to reach his younger brother.

"Danny boy! Glad you're here. Listen, there's a few things we need to discuss..."

Dan eyed him with unveiled hostility. There had always been a sort of tension between the two brothers, and Nathan had only begun to understand the cause of it the day Keith had introduced him to Miss Roe and her son, a boy who, mysteriously, had the same last name as him: Lucas Scott.

"I was wondering if you were still interested in pitching in for a minister's wages. We found the money for a real chapel, and Matthews and Lynde already told me they were still interested so..."

"Let me set this straight." Dan made a pause, as if he was trying to get his mind around the enormity of what his brother was implying. "You want me to collaborate with... with that woman!" Dan bellowed, outraged.

"Well, I understand that it might pause a problem at first, but you always said that..." Nathan had noticed his uncle always seemed to try the conciliatory approach first, he wondered why. It seemed a long established fact for him that if you wanted something from Dan Scott, you either asked outright for it and hoped for the best, you tried to trade it for something he wanted, or you simply didn't ask him at all and prayed for your life when the outcome became known. Parlaying was not a good tactic, especially not when it involved miss Roe.

"No! You won't be getting any of my money if the whore is involved." The tone was final.

Keith Scott's face turned to stone:

"Take that back." He said calmly

Over the years, Nathan had not had much contact with his uncle, who lived in town and rarely visited the ranch, but he knew enough to realize he was a good, fair man. Even if Dan had always insinuated that his older brother was, literally, sleeping with the enemy, Nathan had always felt that he was missing out on something, but he had long ago resigned himself to the fact that his uncle would remain on the outskirts of his life. Still, even if they had never really gone past the polite pleasantries that was expected of them, Nathan had grown to respect the calm and quiet man. Nonetheless, even now as he realized his father was most probably in the wrong, if not principle, then simply for making such a public display of them, the younger man still owed his loyalty to the man who had raised him and thus he could do nothing but stand by and watch, refraining himself from interfering in favor of his uncle.

Other people were standing nearby, listening closely. Nathan could see a few of his friends out of the corner of his eye, no doubt waiting for him. Of course Jerry Smith stood close at hand, ready to jump in to separate the two if the need arose. Several other ranchers seemed very interested by the unfolding scene. But among the different faces looking in, one thing surprised the young Scott: he had not seen hide nor hair of Karen Roe, Lucas, or... well he had to admit to himself that he had been expecting to see Haley again, even if it was just a glimpse. The girl had occupied his thoughts more then he was comfortable with, and he was eager to explore this uncharted territory.

Suddenly the buzz of whispers that had erupted at Dan's outburst died and was replaced by a very tangible hush. Cutting through the crowd, Nathan saw a protruding bald head nodding and acknowledging every one it crossed. The man who appeared as the crowd parted like the sea before Moses was much taller than any normal man, if not much wider. This disproportion projected an air of awaiting eagle which was only slightly softened by a strangely large mouth and eyes magnified in their size by the thick spectacles that hung high on his beak-like nose. Stooping over them, the reverend fingered his starched collar gingerly, clearly bothered by the heat in his black clothes.

"Mister Scott, is it? I haven't had the chance to introduce myself. I'm reverend Johnson, a poor man committed to bringing the word of God in these forgotten parts." His voice was deep and slow, and Nathan had no trouble at all picturing himself being lulled to sleep by it during a lengthy sermon in an over-heated and over-crowded chapel.

Dan Scott eyed the man in front of him with a calculating stare, ignoring the clergyman's proffered hand.

"I... huh... Old age is rough on bones that have traveled far, and the good citizens of this community have been kind enough to make me an offer I am inclined to accept. It seems the good miss Roe would be charitable enough to pay for an entirely new chapel, an act of strong christian generosity if I ever saw one. Unfortunately, as prayer is food to the soul, a man of my condition must depend on regular wages to help sustain the body..."

"Very well, very well." Dan interrupted, "I will contribute to a monthly wage with Matthews, Lynde and Smith..."

The crowd cheered, earning a winning smile from the powerful rancher. Nathan, on the other hand, was racking his brains trying to understand what his father was getting out of the deal, associating with Karen Roe in such an enterprise could not be motivated only by "christian generosity", a virtue for which Dan Scott was not generally known for.

Relieved by the peaceful and satisfying turn of events, the crowd -even if somewhat frustrated of a good Dan Scott blow up- started to disperse and prepare for the morning service. It was only when he saw the men his father had enumerated earlier stay behind to chat with the new reverend that Nathan begun to understand what his father's intentions really were. Matthews, Smith and Lynde were not only some of the most important land owners in the region, but they all had more or less the same opinion of Miss Roe's commercial activities. With such a team behind him, it would take only moments for Dan Scott to take complete control over the tall but frail reverend - and the money he would have to manage. As if on cue, he heard his father:

"Well, Mister Johnson, I think you'll find our offer quite to your likin'. On another matter, me and my good friends here were hoping you might let us serve our community as miss Roe has so generously done. Unfortunately, the last cattle season having been disastrous, we can hardly offer you donations such as her commerce allows her to make, but we would still like to provide you with all our experience as men of business in the managing of the church finances..."

Nathan chuckled to himself, not needing to hear much more to know his father was already weaving his net around Reverend Johnson, a net the poor man would not notice until he was already caught, tied and branded.

The sun was already high up when the service ended and the population of Tree Hill spilled out of the tent as fast as it could to gather back around the large tables where the food every one had brought had been laid out. Maybe it was the morning's idleness or the tension that usually came with a public appearance in the company of his parents, but Nathan's usually growling stomach had yet to manifest itself and he felt quite free to wander about town without his father breathing down his back, while his friends pigged out on the pastries the many women of Tree Hill had brought that morning - now he only had to remember where it was Julia Bell had told him she would wait for him, and all would be well.

Rounding a corner, he caught a snip of conversation that made him stop dead in his tracks.

"Haley, will you stand still for a second? You're making me dizzy." A male voice voice implored teasingly from inside the barn.

"Luke! Do you not realize how major this is?"

"Yeah, I know! Dan Scott almost practically admitted the existence of my mother! I think there's something fishy there..." Nathan knew the older boy's derisive tone should've at least elicited a spark of rebellion from him, but, oddly enough, he felt nothing.

"You ass, you know that's not what I'm talking about!" Nathan thought he heard her giggle. "The reverend, the church! It means they might open a school soon, and who better to teach the young uns then me? You've been telling me for years that my education should amount to something more then working for your mother. This is the chance I've been waiting for!"

The eavesdropper did not quite know what to do with the realization that the girl, brought up god-knew-where and taken in by a saloon-keeper obviously knew how to read and write and probably more, when he, son of a privileged rancher, struggled with the advertisement column in the magazines his mother sometimes left on the table. For the first time in a very long time, Nathan Scott felt what he recognized as shame enter his mind.

"You wanna be a teacher?" Lucas' disbelieving tone mirrored Nathan's sentiment.

"Well..."The young woman began, after a pregnant pause. "It beats marrying Sheldon Morris." She finished more confidently.

"He proposed again?" Hearing the slight laugh in Lucas' voice, Nathan got the feeling that this was a regular topic between the two.

"Cornered me in the backroom when I was closing up, a couple o' days ago" Nathan heard a trace a dread in her voice and he wondered if the other boy had caught it too. "I really wish the man would just stop asking and move on!"

And there it was, the leverage his father had taught him to look for in anyone he needed something from. 'Well then, miss Haley' Nathan thought 'I think we can do business.' A smile spread over Nathan's features as he walked away quietly and set off once again to find the very enticing Julia Bell.

Nathan could hear the horses being hitched over by the river as he buckled his belt, stepping out of the wood shed. Julia was still inside, lazily donning her dress, but he had other things on his mind: the proposition he would make Haley was now fully thought out. He only had to find her.

Back in the field where the new chapel would probably be erected, he quickly spotted Lucas helping take down the tent, but there was no sign of his little friend.

He finally found her in the little yard behind the saloon, sprawled on her back in the unkept grass and softly blowing the seed away from an old dandelion. He stopped dead in his tracks, caught by the fragility of the scene. He had not really thought about it before, but he now realized approaching her would be the hardest thing of all. He remembered coming upon a doe and her spring foal once, near the pine wood: as long as he had remained concealed within the thick undergrowth, he had been free to watch the tranquil scene, but as soon as he had made a movement to come closer, both doe and foal had scampered off quickly. The difficulty was, this time he needed Haley to stay long enough to hear him out.

He had already opened his mouth to announce his presence when he felt something tugging at his sleeve. Looking down, he found a little girl, hardly more than five years old, staring up at him expectantly. Pulling on his shirt once more she began to lead him away. Nathan, intrigued by the child's mutism, glanced up to their destination. Up in a tall oak tree was caught the same waxed-paper kite he had seen in Haley's possession only a few days before. The little girl was pointing at it excitedly, obviously wishing him to retrieve it for her. Not thinking twice about it, the young man jumped up to catch one of the low branches and swung himself over it. It was only a matter of seconds before the toy was safely in his possession and he was climbing back down. Handing it to the girl, he said, as politely and seriously as he could, trying to get a smile out of the quiet child:

"There you go miss. That is one fine kite you got there, if I may say so meself, and you ought to be careful with it."

The corner of her mouth perked up, as if she were trying to repress a smile that could not be helped. But just as red spots were beginning to appear on her cheeks her eyes darted past Nathan's crouched form and widened. She broke into a full smile before racing past him, kite forgotten.

Standing back up, he found the nameless little girl propped up in Haley's arms, head burrowed in the crook of her neck, thumb in her mouth, as the older girl whispered sweet nothings in her ear. Instead of catching on to the child's identity, Nathan was caught by the protectiveness he read in Haley's eyes as she stared at him over the child's shoulder. It finally registered in his mind that the little girl was probably Saphronie's daughter. The father's identity was obviously unknown, but it was a fair guess to surmise that it was some shepherd or other, or maybe a bankrupt prospector. Saphronie's unsightly indian tattoos - origin unknown - tended only to attract those whom Tabitha refused to service on the count of they were 'so damn disgustin', I'd go with the sheep instead'.

Slowly, Haley lowered the girl onto the ground, her gaze never leaving Nathan's. She almost seemed afraid that, should she lose sight of him for a mere second, he would vanish from his spot and escape the ear-boxing he now so clearly saw in his future. At least she was willing to talk to him, he tried to tell himself- but whether or not there would be any speaking allowed on his part still remained to be seen. He knew he had at least one advantage at this particular game: to be raised by Dan Scott, king of verbal sparring, had to have its advantages, he'd had to become a pro at sensing and avoiding attacks before they were uttered - Also, he admitted as an afterthought, she had no idea what power her eyes could hold over him if she only chose to let them.

"What do you want with her?" She spoke sternly as soon after the little girl had scampered off.

She stood as straight as he remembered her on her mule, ready for a confrontation she'd clearly been expecting.

"I..." He began, but realizing there was no good answer to her question, he quickly opted for another approach: "I came to see you... I wanted to-"

"Don't even think about apologizing to me." The tone was as cold as the glare.

Again, she forced him to review his strategy. He'd thought making amends would be the perfect foundation for what he was about to ask her, but apparently he needed to reevaluate her character. He'd experienced first hand how much a well-placed and well-put apology could get him with girls like Livvy, but it seemed this particular lass did not fit in that category, or any other as it happened. Coming to find her, the young man had expected to find himself on the receiving end of an understandable amount of anger, maybe even hatred, but he'd not prepared himself for this cool and composed demeanor oozing righteous confidence. The plan he had thought out now seemed as likely executed as charming an iceberg into bed.

"Alright, I won't." He saw a flicker of surprise behind the cold facade and his hopes were renewed: at this point any type of non-antagonistic feeling was a step forward "But I do have a proposition for you."

He watched her expression darken at the obvious meaning behind his words, and marveled at the openness of her features. He felt like an intruder, a voyeur, reading her innermost feelings as they danced on the edge of her brow. He had grown up in a house where every smile and every sneer was controlled, intended and calculated, where one's face was one's barricade against the world. In that house, Haley's open heart would've made her an easy target, giving him all the ammo needed to destroy her, to transform her into a stone-cold being. And Nathan realized that he hated the idea, and hate it all the more because he realized it was in his power, voluntarily or not. But even as she sent him her most intimidating glare, the fascination was too great for him to avert his eyes. Sensing that she was about to send him to the devil, he continued boldly:

"I need you to teach me how to read and write" The sentence rang in the silence like a church bell over a funeral, alone and yet complete, leaving on each a different impression.

There, he had said it, at the price of his pride perhaps, but worth the quick display of contradictory expressions that surfed on her soft features, passing from surprise to wonder, to doubt to settle finally on cold anger. But before he could retrace her reasoning and fathom the cause of this anger, Haley bit out a sharp and final 'No' and turned to leave. Feeling his chance slipping away, the young man blurted out:

"Fine." He paused for effect "Oh, by the by, Big Shel Morris was looking for you earlier, something about seeing the minister together..."

Seeing her stop her retreating gesture to turn back to him, Nathan had to admit to himself that there was more Dan Scott in him then an uncanny ability with a lariat, and that was already more then what the younger man was comfortable with. Playing people - women especially - like Emmett did his fiddle was his father's own private sport, rattling their nerves just so, toeing the line of manipulation, to produce the desired effect. The young man tried to ignore the similitude in their techniques - now was certainly not the time to ponder over his father's influence. After a moment of silence, he understood that she was giving him the chance to make his offer. He obliged.

"I know Big Shel, an' he's one persistent man. If he ain't given what he wants, he might just try 'n take it - whatever the consequences." There was a pause, giving Haley the time to measure the full weight of his words. "Now, as it happens, Sheldon likes to think of himself as one o' my good friends. A word from me might send him off after other ladies."

He could swear he saw hope flicker in her mesmerizing eyes at the thought of being liberated from Sheldon Morris' attentions, and he tried to convince himself that he wouldn't go talk to the man if her answer turned out to be negative. He noticed her gaze shifting between the white-washed building of the saloon, off to her right, and himself.

"Exactly what would helping you entail?" She asked finally, her question loaded with apprehension.

Nathan breathed a sigh of triumph, knowing that even this tiny opening was enough for him to conquer her fears and doubts.

" Nothing a wh-... nothing rev'rend Johnston would disapprove of."

He cursed the words that slipped from his lips more out of habit then anything else, glad he had recovered without missing a beat.

"No one would know?" But she answered her own question promptly: "No, of course not, you wouldn't want this advertised, am I right?" her tone was caustic and grated his nerves, all the more because he felt how out of character such a remark was for her, and knew it had taken extra efforts to formulate it, only for his benefit.

Choosing to ignore the mildly insulting comment, he offered:

" We could meet in that valley where I found you the other day. Lucas-"

"Lucas would never find out?" She interrupted forcefully, the cool veneer slipping away to show the importance she attached to this last inquiry.

"No."

"And you can convince Sheldon Morris to leave me alone?"

In different circumstances, he might have been insulted by the doubts which laced this last question, but to expect anyone to believe that Sheldon Morris would relinquish his claims on anything simply because he was asked to do so was foolish. In most cases, Big Shel never had to insist very much for anything he wanted, more to the point, nobody was ever foolish enough to dare ask him to back off.

"Absolutely" He repressed a brazen smile.

There was a beat in the conversation: she eyed him, measuring and weighing. He already knew she would not get much out of his demeanor: from a young age his father had taken great pains to instill in him the stoicism he deemed necessary to succeed in life. Never to show weakness was to have none. Those who showed their feelings were too easily played by others; cold, hard, a rock could not be pressured, granite was much less malleable then wood.

And yet there she was, defying the rules, resisting, feeling her way through a situation of which she could make no sense.

"An hour after sunrise tomorrow, don't be late." She announced finally.

He allowed a small smile of relief to fleet over his features, conscious that any more display of triumph would have less desirable consequences. He fell easily into step with her when she tried to breeze passed him, half knowing this would annoy her, but needing some assurance that when next morning came, he would not find her on the war path: he already had a drill sergeant, another would be most unwelcome.

"So, out of curiosity, exactly how many times has Sheldon proposed to you?" Nathan asked pleasantly, trying to gauge her level of animosity toward him.

When she didn't answer immediately, he glanced down and found her counting on her fingers before announcing, a tired edge in her voice:

"Five or six, I forget."

Nathan let out an appreciative whistle. The was one hardheaded woman. Sheldon could be very persuasive if he set his mind to it, more to the point, when he set his imposing frame to it. It took a moment for him to realize she was looking up at him expectantly.

"I'll talk to him today" He assured, at ease with the fact that this service was the only reason why she had agreed to help him in his predicament.

She nodded, satisfied, before turning in the direction of the smithy, probably to meet with Lucas. The message was clear: outside of their deal, interaction was neither needed nor desired.

A/N: Well that was it, the first 25 pages. There was a little quizz I wanted to do, for my own amusement: (1) can anyone say where I took the name for Nathan's horse, and maybe try to come up with an explanation as to why? and (2) did anyone notice the title to a Cat Steven song pop up near the end of the chapter, if so, which one?

so long,

J.D.Lawrence


End file.
